Collective Mutants 3: Fish Out Of Water
by Rossi
Summary: It's exam time in the ordinary mutant household, and Fish is feeling the pressure.


  
  
[TCP] Collective Mutants: Fish Out Of Water.   
By Rossi.  
  
Summary: Number Three of the Collective Mutants series, following the  
lives of five "ordinary" mutants living in a share house in Melbourne.  
If you haven't met the residents of 74 Hope Street yet, you can find  
"Electric Sheep" and "Madame Butterfly" at Fanfiction.net and  
MissyRedX's site.  
  
Disclaimer: The mutant concept belongs to Marvel. The Common People  
concept is a co-production of Phil Foster (who wrote the first ever  
TCP) and Kielle (who laid down the ground rules).  
  
Rating: PG13, for mature audiences. There's some swearing, lots of  
drinking, and some icky stuff at the end. Glossary at the end for  
those not fluent in Australian.  
  
Feedback: Make a ficcer happy today!   
  
  
Many thanks to Phil Foster, both for the support and the loan of the  
Welsh Wonders.  
  
___________________________________________________________  
  
Dive deep. Swim hard. Plunge through the blue. Water salt like blood.  
Drink it in, breathe it, feel it. Become it. The sensation like  
flying. Weightless. So free. No worries.  
  
Raphael Giannmario skimmed along the bottom of the main pool at the  
Brunswick Baths, swimming length after Olympic-sized length without  
breaking the surface. The pool was deserted apart from Fish, the water  
cold and dull beneath the leaden July sky. From time to time the sun  
would break through, transforming Fish's world to dappled silver and  
blue. He let his body carry him through lap after lap, leaving his  
mind free to roam where it wished. It was during these early morning  
swims, particularly in winter, that Fish felt truly at home.  
  
But the moment, as all moments must, had to end, and Fish reluctantly  
headed for the ladder at the fifteen foot deep end, drawing his exit  
out as long as possible. Cold air bit at his skin as he grabbed his  
towel and headed for the showers. The stench of chlorine from the  
heated indoor pool made his head ache. It had been a fine day for  
amphibious mutants, he decided, when the outdoor pool had been  
converted to salt. Chlorine tasted awful and irritated his gills.  
  
___________________________________________________________  
  
"Your mum called," Allison told Fish as he sat down to devour his  
usual breakfast of ten Weet-Bix.  
  
"This early?" he grumbled, pouring a generous portion of milk on his  
cereal. "What was it this time?"  
  
"Apparently one of your brothers was wagging school. So now she  
thinks he's got a drug problem or something." Allison wrinkled her  
nose at the size of Fish's mouthfuls. "God, you're such a pig."  
  
Fish snorted pig-like at her. "Which brother?" he asked, mouth full.  
  
"Mario, I think."  
  
"Little shit. I'll call mum later, read him the riot act again.  
Better me than Dad." Fish rubbed at the back of his hand.  
  
"I see the scales are coming back," Allison noted. Fish shrugged.  
  
"Yeah, so much for getting rid of them. Won't bother with that  
dermatologist again." He got up, taking his bowl with him. "I'd better  
go study. I've got Organic Chemistry the day after tomorrow." He  
nodded at the rumpled figure coming down the hall. "Morning, James."  
  
"Is it?" James yawned. "I was up late, studying, but I'm too hungry  
to sleep now. How are things with you?"  
  
"Studying? Never better mate, never better." James laughed and  
continued into the kitchen, swatting playfully at the tentacle of  
circuitry that had grown out of his arm and was twining itself around  
the door knob of the lounge room door. The kid was doing better, Fish  
reflected. Being able to relax with his powers "at home" meant his  
control was better when he needed it to be. He wasn't quite as jumpy  
either. The worst that could be said of James was his habit of  
"borrowing" things for his inventions. But he always gave them back,  
often better than before, or replaced them.  
  
Spooning soggy Weet-Bix into himself, Fish went back to his room. If  
he got in enough work today, he could probably justify a few pots down  
at the Rainbow Hotel tonight with Robbo.  
  
___________________________________________________________  
  
"Nah, mate, you can't tell me Plugger is a better goal kicker than  
Ablett," Troy Robinson declared, pointing emphatically at Fish to  
punctuate his words. "Why else would they call him God?"  
  
"Because he fucking well thinks he should be one?" Fish replied,  
equally enthusiastically. "Robbo, mate, you're me best mate, but  
you're dead set wrong. Tony Lockett is by far and large the best goal  
kicker in the history of AFL."  
  
"Bullshit, mate. It's gotta be Ablett." Robbo drained his glass and  
cocked his head. "Another shout, mate?"  
  
"Nah, I gotta go home 'n' study. Gotta exam soon. Organic Chemis…  
Organic Chemistry." Fish peered at his watch. "Shit, it's two 'n' the morning."  
  
"Night's just starting, mate," Robbo said, gesturing at the barman,  
"'S plenty of time to study. Later. Two more beers, mate," he added to  
the barman.  
  
"But mate…" Fish protested weakly as another pot of beer was placed  
on the soggy beer mat near his elbow.  
  
"Get that into you," Robbo said, slinging a friendly arm over Fish's  
shoulders. "Now you see them two birds over there?"  
  
"The little blond and the brunette?" Fish asked, peering owlishly  
across the smoky room.   
  
"They've been giving us the eye all night, mate. I think you're in  
there." Robbo giggled drunkenly into Fish's ear. "In like fucking  
Errol Flynn."  
  
Sure enough, the blond was dragging her reluctant friend in their direction.  
  
"Hello," the little blond said boldly, aided no doubt by the fact she  
was plastered, "'M name's Julia, 'n' this is Monica. Who're you?"  
  
"Troy," Robbo said easily, his smile reminding Fish of a shark's.  
  
"'M Fish," he mumbled. Something about the coolly assessing looks  
Monica was giving him made him vaguely nervous.  
  
"Fish?" she asked, arching a finely drawn black eyebrow, "Surely your  
mother didn't name you that?"  
  
"We call him that 'cause he drinks like one," Robbo cut in smoothly,  
"Speaking of which, can I interest you two lovely ladies in a drink?"  
  
"Bundy and Coke," Julia replied promptly, smiling up at Robbo. "I've  
been watching you, y'know."  
  
"Have you?" Robbo said, ordering two more beers and two Bundys. "I  
hadn't noticed." Julia swatted him playfully.  
  
"Don't be silly. I saw you. You've been giving us the eye all night."  
  
"Me? Never."  
  
Listening to Robbo's easy banter, Fish polished off his beer and  
reached for the next, feeling awkward. Out of his depth. The though  
struck him as funny and he snorted.  
  
"What's your real name?" Monica asked, turning those soft brown eyes  
on him. She was starting to remind Fish of one of those Disney cartoon  
girls, all big eyes and perfectly drawn features.  
  
"Raphael," he said. "Raph for short. Mostly Fish."  
  
"And what do you do with yourself, Raphael?"  
  
"'M a med student. At the uni." Fish frowned, trying to remember the  
rest through the haze of alcohol. "Got exams this week!" he said  
triumphantly after a minute.  
  
"And you're here?" Monica asked with another quirk of the eyebrow.  
She sipped at her drink.  
  
"Study break," Fish said emphatically, grinning at her. His face was  
getting that plasticine feeling. "How 'bout you? What d'you do f'r a crust?"  
  
"I'm a secretary for a company in the city," she said smoothly.  
  
"Slumming it then, coming in 'ere?" Fish joked, starting to feel more  
comfortable with the situation. Perhaps it was the beer.  
  
"Julia likes it here, says the people are more interesting. I'm  
starting to agree with her." Monica smiled at him, and he smiled a  
trifle goofily back.  
  
"Let me tell your fortune!" Julia's voice burst Fish's warm fuzzy bubble.  
  
"Wha?" he said blearily, trying to focus on the source of the  
interruption.   
  
"Go on, be a sport, I've already done Troy."  
  
"That was quick," Monica murmured.   
  
"I don't think…" Fish mumbled, but Julia had already seized his hand  
and was poring over it.  
  
"Hey, you've got webbed fingers!" she exclaimed. She turned his hand  
over to look at the back. "And scales too!" She sounded more impressed  
than shocked. Fish pulled his hand away, trying to think through the  
beer fog. What would be the best thing to do?  
  
"Got gills too. Wanna see?" He started to lift up his shirt.  
  
"You're a _mutant_?" Monica's horrified tone halted the impromptu  
strip tease.  
  
"Yeah, 'm a mutant," he said. "Cool, eh?"  
  
"You think being a freak is cool?" Monica's big brown eyes, which had  
been so warm and inviting earlier, had turned hard and disapproving.  
"Ugh, you're disgusting. And to think I was trying to pick you up!"  
With that, she turned and left, grabbing Julie's hand and dragging her  
bewildered friend out.  
  
Fish looked at Robbo.  
  
"Guess she had a problem with mutants, mate," Robbo shrugged.  
  
"Looks like it."  
  
"Her loss." Robbo grinned. "Another beer mate?"  
  
"Won't say no."  
  
___________________________________________________________  
  
"Fuck."  
  
Allison awoke to the distinctive sound of someone trying to get into  
the house whilst as pissed as a newt. A rattling at the keyhole, as he  
tried to get the key to fit. Some more swearing, noticeably slurred. A  
couple of weak thumps, not so much intended to wake anyone up as to  
express general disapproval with the situation. And finally the sound  
of someone sliding down the door and landing on the front step.  
Allison sighed and pulled her flannelette dressing gown on over her PJs.  
  
"Fish again?" mumbled Karen from the other side of the room.  
  
"Who else?' Allison shoved her feet into her woolly slippers. "James  
could just gimmick the door, and Fatimah can fly up to her window.  
Besides, who else living here comes home pissed at four in the  
morning?" Allison frowned in the darkened room. "Something's wrong.  
It's the third time this week."  
  
Karen groaned. "You want me to go down and talk to him?" the house's  
resident den-mother asked.  
  
"No, it's fine. You've got an exam tomorrow. I'll just put him to bed  
and let him sleep it off. Besides, he wouldn't make much sense right  
now." With that, Allison padded down the stairs, allowing a small  
flame to flicker from her fingertip like a candle.  
  
"You silly bastard," she muttered as she opened the door to find Fish  
propped up against the door jamb, sound asleep. "C'mon, you can't stay  
there. James will break his neck when tears out of here late as  
usual." Allison shook his shoulder, gently at first, but when that was  
ignored, harder.  
  
"Wha-? Ali! Mate!" Fish fixed a bleary gaze on her. "How's it hangin'?"  
  
"Just fine, Fish. C'mon, time for bed."  
  
"You're coming to bed with me?" Fish giggled. "Couldn't resist the  
ol' Fishy charm, could ya?"  
  
"In your dreams, you overgrown tadpole," grunted Allison as she  
hauled him up by a limp arm.  
  
"'M hurt. Really. I'll never recover."  
  
"Sure you won't. C'mon you big galah, move those feet."  
  
"I've still got them?" Fish peered down in surprise. "I thought they  
swam away."  
  
"It's a bit hard to miss 'em, they're so big." Allison propped Fish  
against the doorway of his room so she could close the front door.  
"What are you trying to do, pickle yourself?"  
  
"Heh, pickled Fish, tha's a good one," he slurred. "Ali made a funny."  
  
"Sure I did. C'mon, nearly there." Somehow Allison managed to steer  
him through the door and around the piles of junk on the floor to the  
bed. There was a moment of confusion as Fish decided he didn't want to  
let go, but Allison managed to shrug him off and let him collapse onto  
the rumpled bed. Wrinkling her nose, Allison pulled off his shoes and  
draped the doona over him, expecting him to be asleep already. To her  
surprise, he grabbed her wrist as she turned to leave.  
  
"Ali, you don't think I'm a freak do you?" he asked, suddenly more  
coherent than he had been.  
  
"'Course not, dope. If you're a freak, what does that make the rest  
of us? Is this what all this is about? You getting angsty in your old  
age?" Allison's tone was light, but she gave his hand a squeeze.  
  
"Nah, jus' something a girl said tonight. Stuck up cow." Fish grinned  
at her, and then yawned hugely. "You're a good mate, Ali."   
  
Allison's expression was strangely tender as she disengaged from his  
grip and slid his hand under the covers. "You too, Raph. Good night."  
  
Fish didn't hear her. He was already snoring fit to wake the dead.  
  
___________________________________________________________  
  
"You look like shit."  
  
"Sounds about right," Fish agreed, leaning back in the battered deck  
chair and letting the weak winter sun wash over his face. He heard  
Karen's snort of amusement as she sat on the step next to him. "How'd  
the exam go? Contract Law, wasn't it?" he asked without opening his eyes.  
  
"Yep. Think I passed the bloody thing. At least it's over: I feel  
like I've been through the wringer." There was a clink, and the  
welcome smell of brewed coffee. "Here, thought you could do with a brew."  
  
Fish accepted the proffered mug gratefully. "Kaz, you're a bloody  
saint. Between you and Ali, a bloke can't go far wrong."  
  
"It seems you're trying to anyway," Karen said, gazing at the  
bedraggled vegetable patch: nothing much was growing except the  
silverbeet and a few hardy herbs. "Allison tells me you've been  
hitting the tiles a bit hard lately."  
  
"'M a med student, it's compulsory," Fish shrugged away the comment.   
  
"Ironic, eh? The doctors of tomorrow expected to give themselves  
alcoholic poisoning. Studying it from life, are you?"  
  
"'M all right."  
  
"You sure? I'd hate to think there was something bothering you and  
you felt you couldn't talk to one of us." Karen shifted her gaze to  
Fish. "We're friends, aren't we?"  
  
"Sure you are, it's just…" His voice trailed off, and suddenly Fish  
looked uncertain.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Does it ever get to you? Y'know, the pressure? You've got not only  
your parents but a whole community keen for you to do well. How do you  
handle it?" Karen looked down at her coffee mug, which was sending  
little swirls of steam into the cool early afternoon air, as if  
divining her answer from it.  
  
"Sometimes, Fish, I find myself wishing I'd been born into a  
situation that was… a bit more normal, y'know? I'm an Aboriginal. I'm  
a mutant. And I'm doing a double degree. Any of those on their own  
would make things hard enough, but all three together…" She sighed,  
wrapping her hands tighter around the mug. "Then there's times when I  
wouldn't change any of that for the world, because it's who I am. All  
I can do is my best, and believe that it's enough. Sure my family and  
my community want me to do well, but they'd prefer me to be happy than  
successful. Besides, when most of them didn't even finish high school,  
being at uni itself is kind of amazing to them." Karen's keen brown  
eyes met Fish's bloodshot green-blue ones. "I hope you don't think I'm  
putting your problems down, 'cause I'm not. You just have to satisfy  
yourself: find what you want and go after it."  
  
Fish nodded, digesting what she'd said. "Y'know, Kaz, sometimes I  
think you should be freezing your arse off on the top of some mountain  
peak somewhere, waiting for pilgrims to come and ask you the wisdom of  
the world. You always know what to say." A spark of mischief danced in  
his eyes, making him look less sick than when Karen had first laid  
eyes on him. She slapped him on the shoulder, not hard enough to hurt,  
but not exactly softly either.  
  
"Smartarse," she said. But she was laughing.  
  
___________________________________________________________  
  
His chair rocked, Fish noticed irritably. Every time he shifted his  
weight, the bloody thing rocked, making a slight knocking sound that  
was amplified through the large echoing hall. He tried to push the  
annoyance away, concentrate on the paper he was reading, but it kept  
doing it, back and forth, back and forth…   
  
When one of the supervisors came past with a box of cardboard squares  
specifically for the purpose of sticking under rocking tables and  
chairs, he almost kissed her on the spot, large mole on her nose and  
all. As he bent and shoved the cardboard under the offending leg, he  
remembered how James had called them "Ludlows", from Douglas Adams'  
book of definitions, "The Meaning of Liff". He thrust the thought  
away. Concentrate. Read the paper. The words seemed to twist and  
squirm like minnows on the page, defying his attempts to make sense of  
them. Fish sighed, the sound earning him sympathetic looks (and not so  
sympathetic glares) from his neighbours, and rubbed his eyes. He'd sat  
up all night cramming, he couldn't lose it now. Take a deep breath. Focus.  
  
Somehow, three hours passed. Fish didn't notice, caught up in a mad  
scramble of scribbling, rubbing out, swearing under his breath and  
colouring in boxes. Then the head supervisor called for pens down, and  
Fish reluctantly did so. He had no idea what he'd written, how much  
sense he's made. His head was swimming, and he felt cold and empty,  
like he had after doing that ride around Port Phillip Bay. Around him  
in the twilight gloom outside he read the same expressions on the  
faces of classmates and strangers. Relief that it was over. Worry that  
not enough had been done. Fear that what had been done had not been  
correct. Here and there quiet confidence or smug certainty.   
  
"You ready for the pub, Fish?" A hand slapped his shoulder. Fish  
turned to see several of his drinking mates looking at him  
expectantly. A session at the pub wouldn't be the same without Fish.  
He hesitated.  
  
"Think I'll give it miss tonight, Macca," he said reluctantly. "I was  
up all night swotting, and I'm stuffed."  
  
"Couple of beers'll do you good. Medicinal purposes," Jeff "Macca"  
McDonald said, giving his shoulder a comradely shake. The motion  
reminded Fish of Allison waking him on the doorstep two nights ago,  
and the concern in Karen's eyes as she asked if he was doing okay.  
  
"Maybe next time." Fish slapped Macca on the back, and grinned round  
the rest of them. "Have one for me."  
  
"Piker," Matthew "Mad Dog" Howell said as they shambled off in the  
direction of the Clyde. Fish just grinned and waved them off. His  
footsteps echoed in the quiet sandstone tunnels of the old Law  
buildings as he walked to where he'd parked his bike. The walls shone  
a warm yellow under the lights, contrasting with the chill wind  
whistling down them. Fish shivered and shrugged deeper into his  
jacket.   
  
It was fully dark by the time he reached the Park Street  
intersection. Lights on, Fish waited for the traffic signals to change  
as rush hour traffic swept by. A girl on what Fish and his cycling  
mates called "a shitter" rode in front of him with the pedestrian  
signal. Fish wondered how her bike kept moving: eaten away by rust,  
chain disintegrating from lack of oil, gears out of alignment, wheels  
so out of true they wobbled… He shook his head; some people didn't  
have a clue.  
  
There was a screech of brakes, sudden and shocking in the winter  
evening. Fish whipped his head around in time to see the girl who had  
just passed tumble up the bonnet of a sleek late model sedan, her  
shitheap bike disappearing under the front wheels with an almost human  
scream. The girl hit the windscreen with enough force to splinter the  
safety glass, and then rolled down the bonnet again to hit the road  
with an audible thump. The whole thing only took a few moments.  
  
For precious seconds Fish stood transfixed, deaf to the sudden  
blaring of horns and cries of horror. Then his heart gave a great  
leap, and adrenaline jerked him out of his daze. Since he was still  
clipped into one pedal he rode his bike to the scene, dropping it on a  
nature strip and shrugging out of his backpack in one motion. The  
driver was still in his car, trapped by his air bag, but Fish could  
see the mobile clutched in one hand. "Stupid prat, trying that right  
hand turn with a mobile," Fish muttered to himself- it was something  
he'd seen far too often at this intersection. Behind the bag the  
driver's face was grey and drawn, his mouth a round "O" as he looked  
at the damage to his windscreen, and the blood in the cracks.  
  
Fish's mind slipped into automatic. First things first- he checked  
the girl's pulse and breathing. Both still there, thank God, although  
her breathing was ragged and her pulse rapid and weak. He glanced  
around the crowd on onlookers. "Anyone got a mobile?" he asked, and  
several were produced. 'Thank God we live in the Age of Wankers', he  
thought wildly. "Someone call an ambulance. And the police. Tell them  
it's an emergency." A couple in jogging clothes topped by bright  
yellow jackets caught his eye. "Could you two direct traffic, make  
sure no-one rear-ends this bloke? You're hard to miss in those  
jackets." There was a small titter of amusement, and the woman poked  
the man as if to say, "I told you so". But they went and waved cars  
away from the scene without a murmur. Another man, dressed in a  
business suit with a Simpsons tie, got into his car and carefully  
positioned it to act as a barricade, hazard lights and headlights on.  
  
Immediate safety taken care of, Fish turned his attention to the  
girl. There was a disturbing amount of blood on the road beneath her,  
and one arm was pinned beneath her body in a way that did not bode  
well. As he ran his hands over her, trying to find where she was  
bleeding from, Fish noted the cuts and grazes on her face and head,  
the paleness of her skin, the shivering. 'Shock,' his mind supplied  
helpfully. 'You'd better warm her up.'   
  
"Anyone got a jacket or coat I can cover her with?" Fish asked. None  
was forthcoming, people obviously more reluctant to get their clothes  
bloodstained than to use their mobiles. Gritting his teeth over his  
scathing comments, Fish peeled off his jacket, and then his flannel  
shirt. He ignored the biting wind on his bare skin, but it was harder  
to ignore the whispers as people saw the slit-like gills along his ribs.  
  
"Must be a mutant…"  
  
"…see that? A mutie!"  
  
"…be touching her?"  
  
"What a freak…"  
  
Tucking the jacket around her legs, Fish's fingers encountered warm,  
sticky wetness, and the sharp end of a broken bone. "Crap," he  
muttered, realising this was the source of the pool of blood the girl  
was lying in. The bone must have torn an artery. If he didn't stop the  
bleeding soon… Seizing his shirt, he balled it up, preparing to put  
pressure on the wound. A hand grabbed his shoulder.  
  
"I'm not sure you should be touching her, son." Disbelievingly, Fish  
looked up into the face of a carefully dressed businessman with close  
trimmed silver hair and eyes that were as cold as his face and voice.  
  
"You what?" Fish asked, aware that time was seeping away with every  
beat of the girl's heart.  
  
"You're a mutant. You could give her that Legacy Virus we've heard so  
much about."  
  
"And _she_ could give _me_ AIDS. Or Hepatitis C. Or any number of  
blood-borne infections. We don't know for sure. What I _do_ know is  
that she's going to die very shortly if I don't stop her pumping blood  
all over the place." Fish's voice was quiet, but intense, and his  
blue-green eyes fairly glowed with anger. "I'm willing to risk my  
health. Are you?"  
  
"I'm can't…"  
  
"Are any of you?" Fish's furious gaze swept the circle of faces  
watching with morbid curiosity. No-one offered. "Well for fuck's sake  
let me get on with it." He carefully bunched the cloth around the  
broken nub of bone, pressing as hard as he dared. The other hand he  
kept on the pulse-point in her neck, praying she didn't stop  
breathing. She probably had a neck injury, and he didn't want to have  
to roll her over.  
  
"Son, I…"  
  
"Look, just get out of my face, will you?" Fish snapped at the man  
still hovering by his elbow, whether to continue his protests or to  
make an apology, he wasn't sure. "If you want to help, go see to the  
driver. Get his details and make sure he's kept warm and quiet, okay?"  
The man retreated under the force of Fish's anger, and the last Fish  
saw of him was when he opened the car door and started speaking to the driver.  
  
Never before had Fish been so relieved to hear a siren. He kept the  
pressure on the wound until the two ambulance officers took over, and  
then gratefully stepped back. The police arrived a few moments later,  
and quickly took control of the situation, herding back bystanders,  
taking names and statements, directing traffic. Still clutching the  
bloody shirt, Fish sat heavily on the curb near his bike, suddenly  
feeling as drained as if he'd just done a dozen Organic Chemistry  
exams. Through the cluster of spectators, he could see the ambulance  
officers sliding a back board under the girl, wrapping her in a  
silvery blanket, loading her into the ambulance. Another was checking  
the driver for concussion, shining a pen light into his eyes. Fish  
felt strangely numb, as if he was watching a movie.  
  
"You all right mate?" asked a gruff male voice. A pair of blue-clad  
legs moved into his field of vision.  
  
"I think so," Fish said distantly. He looked up into the police  
officer's face. "Sergeant Beamish."  
  
"Not you again," Beamish mock-groaned. He draped something over  
Fish's shoulders- his jacket, he realised, pulling it around himself gratefully.  
  
"Can't get rid of us," Fish said, a faint smile on his face. Sergeant  
Beamish sat down beside him.  
  
"I've been hearing some interesting things about what you did  
tonight, Mr. Giannmario," he said. "You did well. Kept your head.  
Didn't let those idiots get in your way."  
  
Fish shrugged. "I did what I had to. Anyone else would've done the same."  
  
"Maybe. Maybe not. Still, the ambos reckon you saved that girl's  
life." Beamish looked over at the white face beside him. "Ever  
consider a job in the force?"  
  
Fish laughed. "Me? A copper?" He shook his head. "Nah, I know what I  
want to do, and I'm sticking to it."  
  
  
  
The End.  
  
  
Glossary:  
  
Brunswick Baths: Brunswick public swimming pool. Quite an old  
building, with a big outdoor pool and a very well heated indoor pool  
that's usually full of older men soaking their arthritis.  
  
Weet-Bix: Cereal; bricks of compressed wheat.  
  
Wagging school: Play hookey.  
  
Rainbow Hotel: Nifty little pub on Sydney Road. Not much on the décor,  
but serves Guinness and Mercury cider and has Cascade Ale (Tasmanian  
beer) on tap.  
  
AFL: Australian Football League, football referring to Australian  
Rules football. I'm not even going to attempt to explain that- go do a  
search under "Australian Rules" if you're interested.  
  
Lockett: Tony Lockett, forward for the Sydney Swans. Got a goal  
kicking record this year. Known as "Plugger" for reasons unknown.  
  
Ablett: Garry Ablett, forward for the Geelong Cats. Another goal  
kicker, and yes, they really did call him God.  
  
"Mate": Pal. Yes, we really do use this word. But mostly when we're  
really drunk.  
  
"In like Flynn": to have a good chance of doing something…  
  
Bundy: Short for Bundaberg Rum.  
  
"What do you do for a crust?": What's your job?  
  
"How's it hanging?": _Not_ literal. How are you?  
  
Galah: Native parrot, pink and grey. Also means idiot.  
  
Double degree: Two courses in one. Usually Arts/Law, sometimes  
Arts/Science, sometimes Science/Law.  
  
Ludlow: Not really Australian, but I couldn't resist. See Douglas  
Adams' book, "The Meaning of Liff". And yes, during exams people go  
round with little boxes of them…  
  
"Piker": One who pikes, or gives in.  
  
The Clyde: Another pub, this one near Melbourne University and  
something of a student tradition. Does really good nachos, too.  
  
Park Street Intersection: Where you get a four-lane road narrowing  
into one. Bloody dangerous for cyclists, and while I never saw an  
accident as bad as the one I've described, I've seen many similar  
minor ones.  
  
Prat: Moron. Stronger than galah or nong, which are semi-affectionate.  
  
Wanker: Hmm, this one's tricky. Someone who is full of themselves, and  
likes to draw attention to their "success". The sort of person who  
talks really loudly on their mobiles on trains so everyone knows they  
have Important Business.  
  



End file.
